


doctor can you help me ('cause i don't feel right)

by Yevynaea



Series: tryna fight for what's right and got sidetracked [2]
Category: Marvel, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Gen, Night Nurse Claire Temple, Nurses & Nursing, One Shot, POV Claire Temple, Short One Shot, Time Skips, consider this like work 1.5 in this series lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 14:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17982539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: 3+1 times Claire Temple helps Spider-Man.(Or: I couldn't stop thinking about Claire after putting her in the first fic of this AU, so I wrote her a little thing.)





	doctor can you help me ('cause i don't feel right)

The first time Claire Temple meets Spider-Man, it’s 2009, it’s two in the morning, she’d gone to bed early for once, and she wakes up to thuds and shuffling in her living room. With a sigh, she gets up, grabbing the aluminum baseball bat she keeps under her bed, and she pads to the bedroom door as quietly as she can.

“It’s just me, Claire,” Daredevil’s voice calls out. He doesn’t sound like he’s dying, which makes Claire wonder why he’s in her house at _two in the fucking morning._

“You better be dying,” she says, tossing the bat onto her bed and opening the door.

Matt’s not dying. But there’s a lanky vigilante bleeding out on Claire’s floor who might be.

“We got into it with Fisk and… a bunch of others. Spidey said no hospitals, this place was my first instinct. He heals fast, but not instantly,” Matt explains, as Claire hurries to Spider-Man’s side. Matt knows where her first aid kit is, and fetches it without hesitation, pushing it into her waiting hands.

Spider-Man’s torso is covered in cuts, the most severe running from the side of his neck, down across his collarbone, and ending on his chest. The top of the gash looks like it’s missed his carotid by an inch, if even that much. His breathing sounds ragged and too-fast.

“Help me get him out of this,” Claire says of the hero’s slashed-up costume. “How fast is his healing, gimme a time frame.”

“He’s been back up from a pretty bad stab wound in about a day and a half,” Matt answers. “This will probably be about the same, just have to keep him from bleeding out in the meantime.”

Well, Claire can do that. Matt looks pale, nervous, as he helps her get Spider-Man out of the top half of his suit. It’s the smell of blood, she knows, that’s bothering Matt, strong and only getting worse for both of them as it soaks into her carpet. She reaches up to pull Spider-Man’s mask off, since it’s in the way of the cut on his neck, and in a flash he’s grabbing her wrist so hard that something _pops_.

“Peter!” Daredevil says, grabbing Spider-Man’s wrists in turn. “Peter, it’s okay, Claire’s a friend, she’s gonna help.”

Spider-Man doesn’t reply, but his head lolls a little until he’s looking at Matt, and after a moment’s pause he lets go of Claire.

“S’rry,” he slurs, hand dropping to his side again.

“It’s okay, Peter,” Claire replies, rolling her wrist a couple of times to ensure it isn’t injured. She pulls the mask off, revealing blond hair and a very young face. “Jesus Christ, you’re a _child_ ,” Claire says accusingly.

“‘M sixteen,” protests Spider-Man, vigilante teenager, grimacing through the pain of being slashed to hell and back.

“Oh, good, he’s sixteen,” Claire glares daggers at Matt, aware he can’t see it, just hoping he’ll sense how much she wants to smack him.

“Almost sev’nteen,” Spider-Man says.

“A _child_ ,” Claire mutters.

 

☾☤☽

 

Peter conks out pretty quickly, after that. Claire patches him up, mostly with butterfly bandages since he’ll apparently heal too fast for stitches, covers the cuts in antibacterial ointment and gauze, and has Matt move him carefully to the couch so she can scrub stain-remover on the bloodied carpet.

“You’re gonna stay up with him no matter what I say, aren’t you?” Claire says, barely a question and certainly not one that needs asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says. Of course. Claire sighs.

“Wake me up if you need me again,” she says, and goes back to bed.

 

☾☤☽

 

Claire’s alarm wakes her up at eight, and she wants to smash it to bits. Instead, she takes a deep breath, rubs the sleep out of her eyes, and goes to make coffee. Spider-Man is still on her couch, wrapped up in blankets and texting someone, and Matt is gone.

“Daredevil went to get breakfast,” Peter says.

“Oh, good.” Claire starts a pot of coffee.

“Thanks for, uh, everything,” Peter continues.

“Uh-huh,” Claire replies, pulling down a mug.

“Matt told me you help him out a lot, and, and keep his identity secret, and uh--”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone your name, kid,” Claire says. Peter slumps in obvious relief.

“Thank you, Ms. Claire,” he says earnestly, and _jesus,_ he really is just a kid. Claire is too tired to deal with the rolling wave of emotion brought up by that fact.

 

☾☤☾☤☽☤☽

 

She doesn’t see Peter all that often, over the next few years, and when she does, it’s usually him dragging Daredevil in through her window, rather than the other way around. Kid’s got a good head on his shoulders, superhuman durability, an aunt with a nursing degree (among others, apparently, and Claire really wants to meet the woman), and at least a shred more survival instinct than Matt, which means the most she generally has to do for him is give him a band-aid or an Ibuprofen.

The next time she has to save Spider-Man, it’s 2013 and raining, Claire is cold and miserable and on her way home from a shift at the hospital, and he gets thrown through a window thirty feet ahead of her-- and six floors up.

“ _Holy_ shit!” Claire exclaims, as Peter sends a web out, not quite in time to fully catch himself, and ends up landing on an awning rather than concrete. He then rolls off the awning and onto the concrete. She watches as he tries to stand, not really able to get further than rolling onto his side.

“Oh, that’s probably not good,” he mutters, mostly to himself. There are already a few people starting forward, ready to help, and police sirens in the distance. Claire looks up at the shattered window, and sees an ominous silhouette leaning out, looking down at the street before it runs away, back into the building. Claire decides to get Peter the hell out of dodge before it comes down to street level.

“Let me through, I’m a nurse,” she tells the small crowd of New Yorkers beginning to congregate around the hero. “Spider-Man, what’s hurt?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” he says, beginning to wave her off, then he looks up and sees who’s talking to him. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey. What’s hurt?” she asks again.

“Everything,” he groans, pained.

“Can you move your hands and feet for me? I don’t want to move you until I know your spine’s okay,” she says. He manages to move his arms and legs, seems to be maintaining consciousness, and tells her his back hurts but not too much worse than any other time he’s landed on it, so she feels confident enough in her diagnosis. “No spinal injury, but you’re gonna get some bad bruises, and you’ve got a lot of glass in you. Come on, back to my place.”

She helps him up.

“Someone hail us a taxi,” she asks of the crowd, and one man walks a few steps toward the road to do so, while another steps in front of Claire, frowning.

“You can’t just _kidnap Spider-Man_ ,” he says accusingly.

“It’s okay,” Spider-Man reaches up and pats the man’s arm, and Claire winces and tries to push Peter’s hand down because all he’s doing is bleeding on the guy. “I know her. Thanks, man.”

“You sure?” the guy asks, still seeming unsure himself, but Claire’s in scrubs and Peter’s conscious enough to speak for himself, so luckily they paint a trustworthy enough picture for him to let them go when the taxi pulls up.

Claire gives the driver the cross-streets her building sits nearest, rather than an address, just in case anyone’s about to come looking for Spider-Man. No use making it too easy.

 

☾☤☽

 

“So, how’s the semester going?” Claire asks casually, once she’s gotten about half of the glass shards out of Peter.

“I’m dying,” Peter says.

“Like, currently, or just in general?”

“In general.”

“Oh, good. No dying on my couch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter replies. Claire notices his grip on the couch arm getting more and more white-knuckled, and is reminded of his fast metabolism.

“Call your aunt while I grab more painkillers, I’m sure she’s worried.”

☾☤☽

 

May Parker is an icon, in Claire’s humble opinion, because the first words she says when Claire opens the door are “So you’re the lady who helps keep my son and all his idiot friends alive?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Claire says. “Claire Temple.”

“May Parker. Thank you, for that.”

“You are very welcome,” Claire says, and May smiles. Claire lets her in, and she goes to where Peter’s asleep on the couch, looking over him, and Claire’s handiwork, with a critical, worried eye. Evidently she must deem it to be satisfactory, because she gives a soft smile and nudges her nephew’s shoulder.

“Peter, come on, time to go home.”

“Hm?” Peter answers, barely opening his eyes as May reaches into the purse slung over her shoulder, pulling out a set of normal clothes and a bag for the bloodied Spider-Man suit to go into. “‘Kay.”

“Bathroom,” May orders, tossing the clothes at him. He gets up from the couch slowly, and goes, and May turns back to Claire. “Thank you. Really.”

“Of course,” Claire says earnestly.

“I’m just,” May smiles, a little sadly. “I’m glad he’s got someone other than me.”

 

☾☤☾☤☽☤☽

 

The usual routine of Spider-Man encounters resumes. Which is to say, he doesn’t come to her half-dead for a few years, and she has one less vigilante to worry about. Which doesn’t help much with her overall level of stress, considering there are always more _fucking_ vigilantes in New York City, and word of Claire has somehow gotten to _way_ more of them than she cares to be dealing with, but it’s something.

The last time Claire helps Peter Parker, it’s summer, 2018, and Claire is boiling alive in her apartment because the air conditioning’s broken and no one’s been sent to fix it yet. She’s got fans set up, ice packs, and cold water, and she’s talking herself out of eating a full tub of ice cream for the temperature benefits when Spider-Man knocks on her living room window, opens it, then passes out halfway inside.

He’s got a bullet hole in his leg, because of course he does.

He’s also got heat exhaustion, because of _course_ he does. It would probably be heat _stroke_ if he wasn’t so fucking durable. Claire tries to cool him off, both before and after he wakes up, but she’s not doing great herself, given the air conditioning situation, so she focuses on the bullet wound because that’s something she can fix.

Peter eats her ice cream, with hasty promises to pay her back.

 

☾☤☽

 

Two weeks later, Claire’s freezer has three tubs of ice cream in it when she gets home, and there’s a note in her silverware drawer, right on top of the spoons.

_Thanks again. -PP_

Kid’s got a good head on his shoulders.

 

☾☤☾☤☽☤☽

 

The first time Claire Temple meets Spider-Man, it’s 2019, it’s one in the morning, she’s awake in bed binge-watching BuzzFeed Unresolved, and she hears thuds and shuffling in her living room. With a sigh, she gets up, grabbing the aluminum baseball bat she still keeps under her bed and the more recent tekko-kagi from a drawer in her bedside table, and she pads to the bedroom door as quietly as she can.

“Miss Claire?” a young voice calls out softly.

Claire tosses the bat on her bed and goes to look. Spider-Man, the not-exactly-new-anymore one, dressed in black and smaller than small, is standing awkwardly just inside the window, using the sill to steady himself as he bleeds on her carpet from a number of nasty-looking cuts.

“Couch,” she orders, already going for her first aid kit.

 

☾☤☽

 

“Who gave you my address?” Claire asks, curious, twenty butterfly bandages and three Ibuprofen into patching Spider-Man up. He’s got enhanced healing, just like the last one; otherwise he’d need stitches and she’d insist on a hospital.

“I, uh, _well_ ,” he stammers, nervous. “No one?”

“I’m not mad, kid,” Claire sighs. “I don’t like my name getting out to people, but I’ve made it clear that if every New York vigilante is gonna get dragged here at some point anyway, they might as well know the address ahead of time.”

“Wait,” Spider-Man says, eyes widening. “ _You’re_ the Night Nurse!”

“First, I hate that name,” Claire says, though she can’t help the hint of a smile that hearing it brings. “Second, how did you get my address if you didn’t already know that?”

Spider-Man is silent, apparently realizing he’s fucked up.

“I’ve maybe, kinda, been here before?” he says, and when Claire raises her eyebrows, he sighs and pulls his mask off.

It’s Miles.

Miles Morales.

Skinny thirteen-year-old Miles Morales, whose Uncle is a villain, and whose parents Claire has become friends with in the months since saving said villain from Kingpin-aligned henchmen at the hospital. Skinny thirteen-year-old Miles Morales whose parents have brought him over to Claire’s apartment for dinner more than a few times now. Skinny thirteen-year-old Miles Morales whose parents would kill _not only_ him, but also Claire, if they had any idea what was going on here right now.

That Miles Morales.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a _child_ ,” Claire says accusingly.

“I’m _fourteen_ ,” Miles protests.

“ _Barely_ ,” Claire finishes taping gauze onto another of his cuts, then takes her gloves off and puts her head in her hands. She takes a moment to marvel at history’s ability to repeat itself. And its apparent desire to screw with her at every opportunity.


End file.
